Butting Heads
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Captives tag: It wasn't like Sam didn't second-guess himself. Especially that night.


**Butting Heads**  
K Hanna Korossy

It wasn't like he didn't second-guess himself. Like, all the time.

But rarely more than now.

"Dean, just—"

Dean didn't bother answering, just shoved the offered hand away. Which made him wobble even more off-balance. But even as Sam thought, _screw this_, and reached for him again, Dean found his feet and trudged on. Bloody, swaying, and alone, with his brother right next to him.

"Room's here," Sam said quietly.

By the time the words registered, Dean had shuffled past the door. Turning seemed to take a worrying amount of effort.

Sam gnawed his lip to keep from saying or doing something when Dean grabbed at brick wall and porch post to stay on his feet, anything but the living, willing crutch beside him.

_Crutch, _Sam snorted softly to himself. Yeah, that was the right word for them, wasn't it?

He opened the door, shoved the little wastebasket against it to keep it open, then stepped back so Dean wouldn't even inadvertently—_God forbid_—lurch into him on his way in.

Dean grunted something Sam didn't even try to decipher, and weaved his way inside.

The motel was their usual: grungy, with a side of seriously outdated. Dean had, naturally, picked a bar too far from the bunker to return for the night when just climbing into the car turned him green. And of course they'd let the credit cards slide a lot since they'd found a home base, so this was the best they could do. As usual. The heater was chugging like a train engine, and the psychedelic comforters were stained, but the room was warm and Sam managed to whip the cover off the nearest bed before Dean collapsed onto slightly cleaner sheets.

Dean went limp with a drawn-out sigh, eyes already shut.

Sam closed the door and stood there, watching his brother's back rise and fall. The cut on his head was still fresh enough to be stitched. His hair and shirt were damp, tacky with blood. His boots were mud-caked and couldn't be comfortable.

Still Sam didn't move. Not until he bit off a curse and strode into the bathroom, duffel still looped over his shoulder.

He shucked his blood-speckled clothes briskly, turned the shower on. Dean wasn't concussed; he hadn't lost consciousness, just had his bell rung. It had been less than a day since Crowley's dweeby little guard demon had knocked him out at the storage unit so, yeah, there were probably some cumulative head injury effects there, but not enough to be dangerous. Probably. He'd wake Dean once or twice during the night, let his brother snap at him, just to make sure. Nodding, Sam stepped into the hot water, crouching to fit under the showerhead. Closed his eyes.

Saw the wounded look in Dean's eyes as he shook off Sam's grip back at the bar, pain that had nothing to do with the bottle that had sliced his head open.

Sam made a face as he lathered up.

He'd had second thoughts. And fifth, and ninth, and twenty-second thoughts. He was still haunted by the stunned, betrayed look on his brother's face when Sam had told him they had to be partners first instead of family, and even more so when he'd said he wouldn't save Dean from death. How could Sam not be affected? He wasn't heartless, hadn't forgotten Dean's lifetime of sacrifices for him, the years Dean had spent in Hell, the way he hadn't abandoned Sam to Azazel, or the Cage, or soullessness, or madness. Even if it had been for selfish reasons, Dean had done so much for him.

Jerking the shower off, Sam stepped out and toweled dry with quick, irritated swipes. But this had to stop. Dean making decisions for him, bungeeing him back to this miserable life over and over, loaning his body to an angel to be healed, to _kill Kevin_? Sam yanked his sleep pants on. The sacrifices weren't worth it, and he was sick of being stuck with the bill. He couldn't even think about having an angel up inside him again without being physically sick from the idea, remembering Lucifer and his violations…

Sam leaned on the sink, swallowing convulsively, avoiding the bathroom mirror. He had to make Dean understand even if it hurt him, even if it hurt _them. _And maybe it would also make it easier for Dean to let him go next time, because he couldn't… Sam couldn't keep… He sucked in a ragged breath. He _couldn't_.

A bang came from the other room.

Sam's mouth twisted: crap, _Dean_. If he fell off the bed and screwed his head up even more… Teeth gritted, Sam threw open the bathroom door and stormed out.

And was brought up short at the sight of the gaping front door.

Kansas in February was frosty, but he barely felt the pinch of cold as he stormed outside in bare feet. He rounded on Dean, who stood swaying by the car, just managing to stop himself from grabbing the idiot.

"Dean, what the hell?"

Dean blinked at him, pupils wide in the dim parking lot light. He muttered something, went back to fumbling with the Impala's door.

"What? You're not going anywhere." When that didn't seem to spark any reaction, Sam finally grasped his arm.

As expected, he was shaken off. Not expected was the flicker of anguish he glimpsed on his brother's face. "Gotta f-find Sam."

He heard it this time. He just didn't know what to make of it.

"Dean?" Sam said more cautiously. "Dude," he curled his fingers in toward himself, "I'm right here."

Dean was still blinking like he was blurry, confusion twisting his features. "Sam needs—"

"Sam needs you to take it easy, okay?" Slowly, he took Dean's arm again, more pleased than he would admit to have his help accepted this time. "C'mon, let's get you back to bed."

"Sammy?"

Again an unexpected warmth. "Yeah."

"Hmm." Dean was already half-asleep as Sam maneuvered him back to bed, able to ease him down this time instead of the collapse of before. Once more, Dean snuggled into the bedding as his breathing slowed.

Sam frowned at him a moment before going to shut the door. Belatedly shivering, he returned to the bathroom to finish dressing, putting on an extra layer against the chill.

He returned to the main room just in time to head Dean off at the door.

"Dude, what're you—?"

"Gotta…gotta find Sam." Dean's murmur was low, gravelly, pained and determined even as his eyes were hazy.

Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes in exasperation. "I'm right here, man. See? I'm fine."

Dean's eyelids were sagging. "No…got…gotta…"

"I'm here, okay? I'm safe—Sam's safe. You're just kinda scrambled right now, but everything's fine."

Dean gave him a frankly doubtful look, but he was confused enough that he didn't fight Sam's lead. He grumbled a little as Sam got him settled back in the bed, but then he was asleep again.

Maybe. Sam crossed his arms as he stood next to the bed and waited.

It didn't take long. Not even two minutes passed before Dean's eyes fluttered open and he was struggling to sit up again.

"Hey." Sam crouched by the bed. "Hey, Dean. Hey!" Dean's gaze jerked to his. "It's me, all right, it's Sam. I'm fine, so get some rest, okay?"

"No." He knew this voice, heard it every time he was in trouble and Dean was moving Heaven and Hell to save him. "No. Sam's—" The yo-yo act suddenly proved too much, and without another sound, Dean tilted over the edge of the bed and threw up on Sam's shoes.

Sam felt just as miserable. "I'm right here, dude. It's fine, Dean." One hand gripping Dean's shoulder to keep him from following his puke, Sam used the other to awkwardly pat his back.

"'ammy?" It was an airless gasp aimed at the floor.

"Yeah," he sighed, "it's me." He was almost annoyed at how his chest constricted each time he heard Dean call him that. It meant Dean was looking at him like the little brother he had to protect, and that was the reason they'd gotten so messed up in the first place. But Sam's heart was too programmed to fight the instinctive reaction. "Hang on, let's get you up."

Dean groaned at being levered back, his color fading from olive to a chalky white. He was also damp with sweat, and Sam frowned, starting to reconsider the idea of a hospital. Dean's pupils were even, and Sam was certain he hadn't been knocked out, but the confusion and physical symptoms were worrisome.

Dean muttered something and subsided into the bed.

With a sigh, Sam went to get a towel to clean up the mess.

This was actually more what he'd been expecting when the bartender had called him to go pick up his battered brother. Sam hadn't been the least bit surprised that Dean had gone out drinking after the conversation they'd had that evening.

But even as he'd felt a righteous satisfaction at the thought, his conscience also pricked him. It wasn't like in books, where the protagonist made a decision or had an epiphany and never veered from it. Real life was a messy churn of emotions, and after each confrontation, Sam had ping-ponged between guilt and anger, doubt and resolve, hurt and sympathy. Sometimes it hit him again like a fist, what Dean had done to him, the betrayal and violation, and he wanted to make Dean hurt as badly as he'd hurt Sam. Five minutes later, Sam would remember his desperation when his brother had been the one dying, or Dean's expression when Sam had told him he wouldn't do anything it took to save him if the tables were turned, and his stomach would turn at his words. Sam was right; he knew he was. But he also knew he'd rubbed it into Dean's face in the most painful way possible, and his brain had whiplash from ricocheting between vindication and shame.

He came out of the bathroom, to the sight of Dean struggling to rise again, and failing.

Sam strode over, dropping a towel over the stained floor before he sat on the edge of the bed. "Hey, easy." He pressed carefully on Dean's shoulders, tried to meet the glazed eyes. "Dean, hey. You have to stay in bed, man, all right? I know you're feeling kinda crappy right now and you think you've got somewhere to be, but…you don't. That's the concussion talking. So just…take it easy, rest up, and you'll be back in your bedroom on your memory mattress in no time. All right?"

Dean glared at him, a surprisingly effective look despite the fact he looked like yesterday's laundry. "Lemme go, y'son of a…" His Adam's apple bobbed as he struggled feebly against Sam's hold. "Gotta… Sam needs…"

_Sam needs. _The wording extinguished Sam's growing frustration. This wasn't about what Dean needed—besides the need to go save his brother—or even wanted. He wasn't seeking Sam's presence to make him feel better. In fact, every escape attempt was clearly painful, weakening him, making him sick.

But he still had to help Sam. Maybe Dean sometimes only saw that through the prism of his own need for Sam in his life, but there was a fine line between blind desperation and selfishness, and Sam wasn't sure Dean had ever crossed it. He had reluctantly let Sam go when his brother had needed to go to college, to find Dad, to take on Lucifer: whenever it was really what Sam wanted. Dean was dependent, yeah, and sometimes impetuous, but he was not selfish.

Sam softened his voice, from a John command to a Sammy plea. "Dean." He slid his hands down Dean's shoulders to his wrist, his chest. "Hey. Look at me." Dean's eyes struggled to his, narrowed. "It's Sam. I'm all right, I'm safe. You saved me. Time to rest now."

Dean's frown softened. "Sam?"

Fingers pressing into Dean's open palm, he said, "Yeah. I'm here. Not goin' anywhere, all right? We're safe. I'm safe."

Dean's limbs were losing their rigidity, sinking into the bed. "Thought… You were—"

"I'm fine. It's done, bad guys are down, we're goin' home tomorrow, man, all right? You just gotta give it up and get some rest first."

Dean was struggling to stay awake. "Y'sure? Y'r good? Not gonna—"

He didn't really want to hear the end of that question. "I'm good. We're good. Get some sleep."

Dean sighed, hand going lax under Sam's, heartbeat, breathing slowing. "Ya'kay. You…"

And he was out. Literally his last thought still about Sam.

Sam dropped his head, sniffed and swore heatlessly. He loved his brother; there was no changing that. Hated what Dean had done, and there was no easy way to forget that. He was scared for the future, haunted by the past, and the tangle of emotions in his heart seemed impossible. How did you find an answer when the pluses and minuses included things like your brother going to Hell for you, and tricking you into letting yourself be violated?

Dean slept on under his hand, resting easy now that he was sure Sam was there, safe and staying.

And Sam smiled a little, shaking his head as he lay down along the edge of the bed, pressed into Dean's side. Honestly? He had no freakin' clue.

But maybe, just for this night, it didn't really matter.

**The End**


End file.
